Chapter 2: Taking Back What’s Mine
Marcus left for work at eight sharp, same as always.
The moment his Maserati pulled out of the driveway, I moved.
First: the safe in his study. The combination was my birthday—how romantic. Inside: our marriage certificate, the original deed to my father's company, and a flash drive I'd never noticed before.
I pocketed the flash drive and took photos of everything else.
Second: the bank. I showed up at our joint account manager's office in a fitted dress and my sweetest smile.
"Mrs. Blackwell, lovely to see you. How can I help?"
"I'd like to transfer my personal funds to a new account. Separate. Under my maiden name—Sera Langford."
His eyebrows rose slightly, but I was the co-signatory. The funds were legally mine—twelve million that Marcus hadn't yet moved. In three weeks, according to my memories, he'd drain this account dry and funnel everything to Vivian.
Not anymore.
Twelve million, transferred. New account, new bank, no paper trail leading back to him.
Third—and this was the move that would change everything—I drove to the east side of the city. Past the gleaming financial district, past the boutique-lined avenues, into the part of town where the buildings grew darker and the men watching from doorways grew sharper.
I parked outside a bar called Inferno. No sign. No windows. Just a matte black door and two men the size of refrigerators standing guard.
My hand trembled as I reached for the card in my purse. The black one. Dante's.
In my last life, I was too weak to use it. Too loyal. Too stupid.
I stepped out of the car.
One of the guards moved to block my path, arms crossed. "Private establishment, ma'am."
I held up the card between two fingers. "Tell Mr. Corsetti that the woman from six months in the future is here to repay a debt."
The guard blinked. Confused. But he took the card inside.
Three minutes passed. Five.
Then the door opened.
A man emerged—not Dante, but someone almost as terrifying. Tall, built like a weapon, with dead eyes and a scar running from his temple to his jaw. Dante's right hand. I remembered him from that night, standing in the shadows like a statue.
"Follow me," he said.
The inside of Inferno was nothing like I expected. Dark wood, velvet booths, low jazz playing from invisible speakers. It smelled like expensive whiskey and old money.
And there, in the far booth, sat Dante Corsetti.
He looked exactly as I remembered. Dark hair pushed back, jaw like it was carved from stone, eyes so black they swallowed the light. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, top button undone. A glass of bourbon in his hand, untouched.
He watched me approach with an expression I couldn't read.
I sat across from him without waiting to be invited.
"You don't know me yet," I said, keeping my voice steady. "But in six months, you'll hand me a card exactly like that one. You'll tell me I'm wasted on my husband. And I won't listen."
Dante didn't move. Didn't blink. His eyes pinned me like a butterfly under glass.
"This time," I continued, leaning forward, "I'm listening."
Silence stretched. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Sera Langford," he said. Not a question.
My blood ran cold. "How do you know my name?"
He set his glass down with a soft clink. "I know everything about Marcus Blackwell's wife. I've been watching him for two years."
The room shifted. Everything I thought I knew rearranged itself.
Dante wasn't a stranger I'd stumbled upon by accident.
He'd been circling Marcus like a shark all along.
"Why?" I whispered.
Dante's eyes darkened. "Because your husband killed my brother. And you, Mrs. Blackwell—" He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell cedar and smoke. "—you're going to help me destroy him."
---
The moment his Maserati pulled out of the driveway, I moved.
First: the safe in his study. The combination was my birthday—how romantic. Inside: our marriage certificate, the original deed to my father's company, and a flash drive I'd never noticed before.
I pocketed the flash drive and took photos of everything else.
Second: the bank. I showed up at our joint account manager's office in a fitted dress and my sweetest smile.
"Mrs. Blackwell, lovely to see you. How can I help?"
"I'd like to transfer my personal funds to a new account. Separate. Under my maiden name—Sera Langford."
His eyebrows rose slightly, but I was the co-signatory. The funds were legally mine—twelve million that Marcus hadn't yet moved. In three weeks, according to my memories, he'd drain this account dry and funnel everything to Vivian.
Not anymore.
Twelve million, transferred. New account, new bank, no paper trail leading back to him.
Third—and this was the move that would change everything—I drove to the east side of the city. Past the gleaming financial district, past the boutique-lined avenues, into the part of town where the buildings grew darker and the men watching from doorways grew sharper.
I parked outside a bar called Inferno. No sign. No windows. Just a matte black door and two men the size of refrigerators standing guard.
My hand trembled as I reached for the card in my purse. The black one. Dante's.
In my last life, I was too weak to use it. Too loyal. Too stupid.
I stepped out of the car.
One of the guards moved to block my path, arms crossed. "Private establishment, ma'am."
I held up the card between two fingers. "Tell Mr. Corsetti that the woman from six months in the future is here to repay a debt."
The guard blinked. Confused. But he took the card inside.
Three minutes passed. Five.
Then the door opened.
A man emerged—not Dante, but someone almost as terrifying. Tall, built like a weapon, with dead eyes and a scar running from his temple to his jaw. Dante's right hand. I remembered him from that night, standing in the shadows like a statue.
"Follow me," he said.
The inside of Inferno was nothing like I expected. Dark wood, velvet booths, low jazz playing from invisible speakers. It smelled like expensive whiskey and old money.
And there, in the far booth, sat Dante Corsetti.
He looked exactly as I remembered. Dark hair pushed back, jaw like it was carved from stone, eyes so black they swallowed the light. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, top button undone. A glass of bourbon in his hand, untouched.
He watched me approach with an expression I couldn't read.
I sat across from him without waiting to be invited.
"You don't know me yet," I said, keeping my voice steady. "But in six months, you'll hand me a card exactly like that one. You'll tell me I'm wasted on my husband. And I won't listen."
Dante didn't move. Didn't blink. His eyes pinned me like a butterfly under glass.
"This time," I continued, leaning forward, "I'm listening."
Silence stretched. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Sera Langford," he said. Not a question.
My blood ran cold. "How do you know my name?"
He set his glass down with a soft clink. "I know everything about Marcus Blackwell's wife. I've been watching him for two years."
The room shifted. Everything I thought I knew rearranged itself.
Dante wasn't a stranger I'd stumbled upon by accident.
He'd been circling Marcus like a shark all along.
"Why?" I whispered.
Dante's eyes darkened. "Because your husband killed my brother. And you, Mrs. Blackwell—" He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell cedar and smoke. "—you're going to help me destroy him."
---